I Was Pushing Myself To

There's A Place Beyond Words Where Experience First Occurs To Which I Always Want To Return. I Suspect That Whenever I Articulate My Thoughts Or Translate My Impulses Into Words, I Am Betraying The Real Thoughts And Impulses Which Remain Hidden.

As I Go To Sleep I Remember What My Father Said-that One Can Never Be Sure If One Will Awake. The Way My Health Is Now, This Is Becoming More And More Real.

Chance Was To Work In The Garden, Where He Would Care For Plants And Grasses And Trees Which Grew There Peacefully. He Would Be As One On Them: Quiet, Open Hearted In The Sunshine And Heavy When It Rained.

Can The Imagination, Any More Than The Boy, Be Held Prisoner ?" - From The Foreword To The 1976 Edition Of "the Painted Bird

She Seemed To Belong To That Pagan, Primitive Kingdom Of Birds And Forests Where Everything Was Infinitely Abundant, Wild, Blooming, And Royal In Its Perpetual Decay, Death, And Rebirth; Illicit And Clashing With The Human World.